


Good Fences

by OriginalCeenote



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Body Worship, Bucky Barnes Is a Good Bro, Clint Barton Is a Good Bro, Eligible Bachelor Sam Wilson, Fluff, Freebird - Freeform, Frotting, Greenhorn Steve Rogers, Gun Violence, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mild Bloodshed, Old West, Oral, Preacher's Son Sam WIlson, Saloons and Moonshine, Skinny Steve Rogers, Steve Gets Transformed into A Puppy, Tonight We're Gonna Party Like It's 1839
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-27
Updated: 2021-02-02
Packaged: 2021-03-12 22:53:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 19,929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29018490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OriginalCeenote/pseuds/OriginalCeenote
Summary: “Where did you come from, little fella?” Sam knelt down and crooned over the sandy ball of fluff. The pup’s fur was matted around its front leg. Looked like it got trapped somewhere tight and fought its way free. The pup whined and yipped, snuffling at Sam’s outstretched hand. Sam felt an unwelcome warmth flood his chest. The last thing he needed was one more mouth to feed. Then, the little varmint nosed at his hand and licked his palm.“So, that’s how it is?”
Relationships: Steve Rogers/Sam Wilson, background James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton
Comments: 44
Kudos: 26
Collections: Marvel Fans 4 BLM 2020





	1. Not Quite Neighborly

**Author's Note:**

  * For [NachoDiablo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NachoDiablo/gifts).



> This is NachoDiablo’s auction prize for MarvelBLMFans. Old West was something we discussed, as well as Steve getting turned into a dog. Two of my favorite things. Art will soon accompany this.

“WILSON! HEY! COME AND GET THIS MUTT!” 

Sam paused in stacking the armload of freshly chopped firewood against the side of his cabin and turned toward the sound of Steve’s voice, rich and deep, granted, but also a constant source of annoyance. Redwing, the enormous Irish setter, barked and rushed toward Sam and looked completely unapologetic.

“What’d he do now?” Sam drawled as he set down the narrow log.

“That mutt of yours made a meal outta one of my chickens, that’s what!” Steve was fuming. “Do me a favor and keep a closer eye on him, Wilson!”

Steve Rogers hadn’t owned the property across the field long, and folks in town liked to call him a greenhorn. He came in on a train from New York in the middle of the night, paid too much for a hotel room, and signed the deed for the old, dilapidated farmhouse, barn, and five acres of decent land the next morning. It had been a thriving farm, once, before Steve’s grandfather got on in years and deep into whiskey while he mourned his late wife. His hired hands slowly made off with funds from his cash box and stole his equipment and tools, selling them off for less than their original value, letting entire fields turn fallow. “Big Joe” Rogers willed the property to his only grandchild on his deathbed in an attempt to offer him a future of safety and stability. Of security.

And now, Sam Wilson’s dog was jumping up on him, with tiny, curling chicken feathers clinging to his fur, his breath smelling like a recent kill. “Down, boy. Giddown. Stop that. Did you get into his henhouse? Huh?” Redwing sat and whined, knowing he was in for it, now, but Sam kept his tone stern. “Go. Lay down. Go to your corner and think about what you did.”

“That’s all you’re gonna tell him?” Steve demanded as he approached. Sam noticed streaks of dirt on his cheeks that were already rosy and damp with sweat. Steve was tiny, maybe five and a half feet of anxiousness and sass. Sam could practically tuck him into his hip pocket. “That mangy animal hops the fence onto my property, makes off with one of my chickens, and that’s how you’re gonna take care of the problem?”

“He’s a dog, Rogers. Dogs eat meat, last I knew. It’s the nature of the beast.”

“I eat chicken, too, but I don’t cross the line and eat _yours_ , Wilson.” 

“What are you working on?” Sam asked, deciding to change the subject.

“Plowing the back field. Weeds have taken over. An actual crop hasn’t grown out there in who knows how many years, Sam, but quit changin’ the subject.”

“Need help?”

“No. I don’t need any help. I can get by fine on my own, but I can get by a little easier if you’d just watch out for that mutt of yours.”

“He’s not a mutt. He’s an Irish setter. And he’s not mangy, either. Just look at that nice, healthy coat.” Sam’s smile reflected smug pride.

Steve silently tried to ignore the laughter dancing in his rich, dark brown eyes and the dimples chiseled into those cheeks. He hated it when the townsfolk laughed at him or stood around gabbing behind his back, acting like he was deaf in _both_ ears instead of just the left. Sam Wilson seemed well meaning enough, but… that laughter. Maybe it was an innate part of who Sam was, but Steve just couldn’t deal with it being at _his expense_.

Sam turned and reached for his water pitcher and a tin cup. He poured a cup of the still-cold liquid and held it out to Steve. “Here. Looks like you could use it.”

Steve wasn’t one to refuse generosity. He knew he looked a wreck, all huge patches of sweat making his calico work shirt cling to his skin. His knobby collarbones stuck out from above the gap where he’d left it unbuttoned. His lean arms were muscular despite his narrow frame, but they were also lightly sunburned. That didn’t stop him from rolling up his sleeves in this heat. He took the cup, nodded his thanks, and worked the cool liquid down his throat. Steve smothered a belch behind his hand before giving Sam back the cup, which didn’t quell Sam’s amusement.

“I know I ain’t lived around here that long, Wilson, and you’ve gotten used to just doing what you want out here, without having to worry about your neighbors across the field, because maybe it’s been a while since you’ve had any. But it’s not gonna get any easier for me if you don’t watch that dog of yours, or the rest of your beasts.”

“You think I’m just ‘doing what I want out here?’” Sam scoffed. He was still smiling, but he couldn’t stop his brow from furrowing the way it did when he smelled something in his storage cellar that had gone off. “I’ll thank you to stop making assumptions, Rogers. You might give me the impression that you don’t think I’m a good neighbor, and that we can’t cooperate with each other from across the fence.”

“Speaking of fences,” Steve added, as though he was glad that Sam raised the subject, and that he was just getting warmed up. Sam huffed. “I think it’s about time we mended the one that ends just shy of your orchard. Your cows are going to push through it. Those boards are rotting through.”

“Those boards are only three years old!” Sam shot back. “All they need is to be tightened and straightened up. I’ll replace the boards when it’s time to replace them, and it’s not, yet.”

Steve’s lips thinned, and he sighed deeply, puffing out that narrow chest of his, a gesture that Sam would have found amusing if he wasn’t suggesting more work on Sam’s plate, when it was already full enough. “I didn’t say I wouldn’t help, Wilson.”

“I didn’t ask for help for something that I don’t think needs attention yet.”

“Well, let me know when you think the state of our properties _does_ need your attention. I’m all ears.”

Steve turned away, then turned back for a moment, seeming almost reluctant to leave Sam’s presence. “See you around. I have _work_ to do to keep up my land.”

“I’ll let you see to it, then,” Sam assured him coolly. He resisted the urge to sigh as Steve stalked across the field between their two properties and let himself out through Sam’s gate. He wanted so badly to like Steve. And for the most part, he almost _did_. He was just so… 

Hardheaded. Stubborn. Picky and set in his ways.

Sam smiled and waved to him despite himself when Steve turned back once more. “C’mon, Redwing. Help me round up those cows. You’re gonna earn your supper, even though I know you just ate.”

[](https://www.flickr.com/photos/183133495@N02/50881807133/in/dateposted-public/)

*

Steve felt himself flush as he caught Sam’s wave and that smile of his. Not quite smug, but just… maddening. Steve wondered if every word he’d said went in one ear and out the other with Sam Wilson. That didn’t stop him from wandering across the field every now and again in an attempt to be a good neighbor.

It was taking so much to get the farm back up and running. Steve’s Grandpa Joe left it a mess. Signs of neglect were everywhere, from the weed-choked gardens to the ivy that threatened to consume the side of the old farmhouse. Steve spent several days plowing the fields that threatened to remain fallow and planted tidy rows of seed, He first met Sam when he was watering the pitiful orchards. Sam was harvesting his peach crop and resting a minute. Steve watched him from atop the ladder as he slid his hat back and wiped his forehead with the back of his wrist. Steve’s breath caught.

Sam Wilson was a striking man, even from far away. Short, coarsely curled hair peeked out from beneath his hat. His forearms bulged with muscle. He stood several inches taller than Steve when they were within arm’s reach, and he had a charming gap between his teeth when he smiled. Sam smiled often, even though Steve knew it _had_ to be at his expense. It didn’t stop Steve from staring, though. Steve watched Sam take a drink from the canteen and continue picking the fruit. It was hard to take his eyes off of him, and Steve realized he wasn’t being very productive; he went back to watering his own trees, saturating the hard soil.

The Wilsons had lived in the area for a long time. Sam’s father was the local pastor at the tiny chapel just on the edge of town, and his mother was a former schoolmarm. Sam inherited her cheekbones and dancing brown eyes. Sam’s brother Gideon helped him out on the farm and always showed up when it was time for slaughter. So did James Rhoads, a friend of Sam’s while they were growing up. 

Steve managed to hire some help when he was in town purchasing supplies. Clint Barton was a pleasant enough man and he owned a ranch with his brother, Barney. They made most of their money hunting predatory animals to protect local flocks of sheep and herds of cows, and the locals called Clint “Hawkeye” because of his handy aim with a bow or a rifle. Steve’s own childhood friend, James Barnes, followed him south shortly after Steve left New York. Steve nagged him to stay with him on the farm, but James, who answered to “Bucky” as long as Steve had known him, flat-out refused, choosing the boardinghouse in town. “We’d get sick of each other right quick, Stevie,” he informed him when Steve suggested it again while they were baling hay. “You don’t need to wake up and stare at my ugly face every morning over grits and eggs.” Bucky was protective of him, though, and he showed up bright and early every morning to help Steve knock his farm into shape. Bucky was handy with domestic tasks, like churning butter and canning fruits, so very little of what Steve grew or harvested would end up going to waste. Bucky’s spiced peaches gave Sharon’s a run for her money, something she admitted with more than a hint of spite.

Steve was managing mostly on his own, and he was certainly used to it, but sometimes, he missed New York. He definitely missed his mother, Sarah, ever since she died of pneumonia. She left behind a husband who couldn’t stand the thought of life without her, and a few months later, Joseph Rogers, Jr. passed away quietly in his chair beside the stove, with her small daguerreotype clutched in his hand. Steve left flowers on both graves every week, until one morning, he thought he heard his father’s voice telling him, _Go west._ Steve gave up his job at the local telegraph office, packed up his things, loaded up his father’s old wagon, and used a chunk of his meager savings for provisions for the journey. Once he arrived at the tiny, simple town, Steve contacted his grandfather’s solicitor, signed the deed at the bank, and claimed his grandpa’s old place as his own.

The gloss of tending his own farm wore off within a week, but Steve Rogers was determined. He first met Sam Wilson when he came back home one afternoon from a trip into town. He sat proudly on horseback, tall, lean and striking, all broad shoulders and long, muscular legs. He rode up to the gate and eyed Steve, and there it was. That hint of laughter in his gleaming, dark brown eyes. He waved up to Steve, who was attempting to patch his roof.

“Hello, neighbor. I heard you were new around these parts.” _New_ , instead of _green_. Sam didn’t want to get on his wrong side from the jump, and folks living in these parts had some opinions about greenhorns, none of them flattering. And Sam Wilson wanted to give this man the benefit of the doubt, even though he seemed to be making things hard on himself, with such a meager supply of shingles stacked beside him, ensuring he would need to make several trips up and down the ladder for more.

“What else have you heard about me?” he asked Sam, not bothering with a proper hello.

“Not much else. Just that we’re neighbors, now.”

“Then I hope you’re not the kind of man who listens to gossip around town. Otherwise, we won’t have anything to say to each other.”

“I like to form my own opinions. I can do that once we get acquainted,” Sam challenged. 

And he was really trying to get acquainted. Steve Rogers was as prickly as a cactus.

*

Despite himself, Steve thought about one Samuel Thomas Wilson more often than he would ever admit. Those thoughts snuck out of him in the form of sketches.

Steve’s only indulgence was the occasional sketchbook, vines of charcoal, and drawing pencils. Sarah Rogers fostered his gift for drawing and saved many of his childhood works in a scrapbook that he found in a trunk when he went through her things. The childish, scratchy pictures made his eyes sting with unshed tears. She loved them, and loved him, enough to save them in a safe place. Whenever Steve suffered any of the usual ailments - croup, mumps, scarlet fever that robbed him of his hearing in one ear, diphtheria, chicken pox - Sarah let him entertain himself with his drawings. Wobbly sketches of frogs and birds gradually gave way to recognizable renderings of his father’s wagon. Of the schoolhouse or the water pump. Mr. Summers, his primary teacher, took him aside and taught him proper techniques. Steve’s memory was eidetic, a rare gift. Steve could recall the details of everything he saw, no matter how minute. The memories fed his sketches, and as he reached adulthood, his artwork came bustling to life on the page.

Including his neighbor, tall and proud atop his horse, skin gleaming with midday sweat. Steve’s pencil loved Sam’s heavy brows and the neat curve of his chin, that wide mouth that only knew how to smile, the small, well-shaped ears. His charcoals shaded the hollows of his cheekbones and throat. Clandestine drawings that would never see the light of day if Steve could help it. 

Steve needed another distraction. Sam Wilson was, well. Absolutely _maddening_.

*

He met Bucky and Clint one afternoon at the parcel station, catching Bucky after he sent a telegram. He smiled and clapped Steve on the shoulder.

“You look red as a raspberry, Stevie.”

“Too much time on the roof. I had to fix a leak.”

“Well, how about spending some time on a stool with a glass of something cold? Come with us, Rogers. We’re headed for that saloon just on the edge of town.”

“Miss Amora’s,” Bucky added. “Rumor has it, she serves moonshine so good it’ll grow hair in all the right places.”

“Anyone with a decent bathtub can make moonshine,” Steve argued, but he was intrigued by the offer.

“C’mon, Stevie. It’s been a dog’s age since we had time for a drink.”

“Because Rogers here never _makes_ time,” Clint said, giving Steve a friendly shove.

“I have to fix the fence. My neighbor can’t be bothered. His dog’s eating my chickens.”

“Don’t fix the fence. Fix the henhouse,” Clint told him. “Dogs love chicken. Be ready to bid a few of ‘em goodbye.”

“So, I should starve because my neighbor can’t control his mutt?”

“You’re turning that place around, Stevie. Don’t worry so much. And I’m telling you, Sam Wilson isn’t a bad man at all. He’s fair. He’ll help out if you ever need him. Sharon said he helped gather up a team of men to rebuild her barn when it burned down last spring during a lightning storm.”

“I don’t need you singing me Sam’s praises, Bucky.”

“No, but you _do_ need a nice, cool drink.”

“And quit bein’ so tight-assed about a damned chicken,” Clint added. “Dogs are good, Steve. They’re helpers. They keep the herds in line and they warn you when someone’s on your property that shouldn’t be.” He threw an arm around Steve’s shoulders and dragged him along. “Learn to trust dogs.”

They rode out to the edge of town, and they found the saloon bustling and loud, filled with boisterous patrons. Several card games went on in the front parlor, and a tall, buxom woman with an elaborate spill of blonde curls and a tight, green gown edged in black lace eyed them as soon as they walked in. Steve felt a strange shiver run up his spin as her blue eyes flitted over him, but she gave him a dimpled smile as Clint and Bucky urged him up to the bar.

“What can I get for you fellas?” her server asked. She was clad in a snug purple corset and bloomers, and Steve couldn’t tell if she was just a barmaid, or if she worked upstairs entertaining gentlemen, too. Her raven hair, pale complexion and dark eyes were a striking contrast to her companion. 

“Whatever’s good tonight, Sif,” Clint told her as he dug into his pockets and slid a couple of coins across the bar.

“Your money’s no good here, Barton. We still owe you for getting rid of that coyote that was sniffing around my goats. Drinks are on the house for you three.” She nodded to Steve. “Who’s your friend?”

“Steve Rogers, ma’am. Please to meet you.”

“Goodness, you look like a handful,” she chuckled. “Welcome, Mr. Rogers. Pull up a chair and make yourself at home.”

“We’ve been waiting for you,” the blonde woman added, and again, Steve felt a strange tingle of awareness when he looked at her. Her voice was rich and smooth as honey. And what did she mean, _We’ve been waiting for you?_ “My name’s on the sign out front, Mr. Rogers. Are you pleased to meet me, too?”

“It’s a pleasure, Miss Amora.”

She huffed and set three glasses on the counter. She poured two of them and slid them across to Clint and Bucky, who took them eagerly and gave them a brief whiff.

“Bet this packs a kick,” Bucky murmured as he sipped it. He grunted in surprise. “Two more of these and I’ll be on the floor.”

“Get one for Rogers, too,” Clint told her.

“Oh, I have something special in mind for him.”

Steve felt himself blushing furiously, but he maintained his careful smile, tugging on the hair at his nape.

“I have the feeling you need something different. I can fix you a shot of my usual. Everyone here wants the usual. Tell me a little about yourself, Mr. Rogers.”

She slid the jar of moonshine back behind the bar and kept her long, slender fingers splayed atop the glass tumbler.

“What do you want me to tell you about myself?”

“What brings you here? How long have you lived in these parts?”

“Well, these two brought me here-”

“I mean, here into town. You’re from eastern parts, aren’t you?”

That surprised him a little, until he considered how his accent might sound to local ears. “New York.”

“It’s more established out there. More civilized. And you moved yourself out here to this bogwater to run a homestead?”

“My grandpa left it to me when he went to his reward, ma’am.”

“Duty, then. That’s what motivates you. I sensed that the moment you walked in through that door. You’re a man who takes care of his responsibilities and hates asking anyone for help, or for permission.”

“She’s got you all figured out, Steve,” Clint snickered as he downed his drink. Sif smirked at him as she refilled his glass from the moonshine jar.

“I’m just a good judge of character, and I know yours is strong. Sterling.”

“Sterling Stevie,” Bucky agreed, clapping Steve on the back firmly enough to make him grunt. “And he’s loyal to the end.”

“And still a bachelor?” Amora teased.

“Can we not keep talking about me?” Steve pleaded.

“Of course! Where are my manners? I still need to pour you a drink!” Amora kept watching him, and she stared deeply into Steve’s eyes. He watched hers dilate, and for a moment, the room spun. 

His stomach flipped, and he felt as though his spirit was being invaded by heat and an intrusive presence. His body tingled and he sucked in a shaky breath. 

_I’m good at giving a man what he needs, even when he doesn’t know what that is himself. You’re lonely, Mr. Rogers. But, you’re loyal. And loyal men shouldn’t be lonely._

The words lingered in his brain, and Steve didn’t know where they came from. Then, Bucky gave him a little shake, snapping him out of it.

Amora turned her back to him, and Steve realized he had to have imagined their exchange.

“You’ve been out in the sun too long, Stevie. You’re lookin’ peaked.” Bucky gave his arm a squeeze. “Siddown.”

Clint and Bucky urged him onto a stool, and Amora scanned through the bottles behind the bar, smiling at her own reflection in the broad mirror running along the wall. The bar’s noise increased in volume as booted feet thudded across the floor planks and chairs scraped away from tables. Steve smelled liquor, leather and sweat and felt a little overstimulated, but it was still better than being alone in his grandfather’s old house, watching dust gather on the whatnot shelves and listening to the flies buzz outside his window. Clint and Bucky liked to ride him, but at least it meant companionship.

Talking to Sam Wilson and listening to his excuses for why he couldn’t be a more cooperative neighbor and give a little at least meant contact, but Steve wished they could just see eye to eye on a few things. It would just be nice to talk to him without it leading to bickering. Having his attention just seemed to mean letting him laugh at Steve’s expense…

“We need to loosen you up,” Clint decided. “Just pour him one already…”

“Clint, manners.”

“Sorry, Buck. Sorry, ma’am. Please, pour him a drink.”

Amora selected a bottle at long last. She poured a perfect two fingers into the tumblr. The liquid was golden and smelled sharp and bright.

“Bit of orange in it, and bitters,” she told him. “Bottoms up, Mr. Rogers. I think it will give you just what you need.”

The liquor twinkled at Steve from the glass. He reached for it, raised his glass to her in thanks, and brought it to his lips, tossing it back in one neat gulp. It burned just right going all the way down and warmed his belly. Steve’s senses went on high alert, and he was tingling again, ears ringing.

“Whoo,” he muttered. Bucky clapped him on the back again.

“That’s more like it. Take a load off, Stevie.”

Amora turned away and served her next customers.

“That _will_ put hair on your chest,” Sif promised smugly. “Hey. I get the feeling that you’re a man who needs a good laugh more often, Steve. And some companionship?”

Steve blushed, wondering if she was implying what he thought.

“Not the kind we’re offering,” Amora scolded as she swatted Sif’s hip. “But he knows where to look for it.” She winked at Steve. “It’s closer than he thinks.”

*

Steve begged off after one drink, even though they wiled away another hour at the saloon. He still felt strange, charged with energy and hyper-aware of everything around him. Conversations felt too loud, and he heard background noises underscoring them that made no sense. The ticking of the clock shouldn’t have been discernible when the piano was playing that loudly, and it was across the room from him, but Steve heard it as though it was right by his elbow. He heard the strike of a match outside - outside - as a man in a long, dark coat lit his cigarette. The odor of tobacco made Steve wrinkle his nose in disgust. 

“You look like you smelled something ripe,” Bucky told him.

“Maybe you stepped in a cow pie,” Clint accused.

“I’m fine. I’m ready to go.”

“I’m disappointed, but I’m not surprised, Stevie. C’mon, then.”

They bade Amora goodnight with a brief wave. She nodded and winked at Steve, smiling in that strange, knowing way that made the hairs on Steve’s nape stand on end.

Steve rode home once they parted ways, and his vision felt blurry for some reason. He removed his spectacles, and noticed that everything looked brighter and clearer without them, which… made absolutely no sense. He replaced his glasses, noticed his landscape before him blurred again, and he removed them again, tucking them into his jacket pocket. Steve drove his wagon down the road toward his homestead, wondering why he couldn’t seem to calm down. The night sounds were still too loud. He heard critters scrabbling through the brush and the snap of twigs beneath his horses’ hooves, hoot owls, and chittering sparrows overhead in the trees. Steve’s head began to throb, and his hands shook as he guided the reins. Dizziness swamped him, and he tasted metal on his tongue.

He made it home, and his legs felt like they wouldn’t support him. Steve staggered inside, and he managed to light the lantern, but he had to set it back on the kitchen table before he dropped it. “Damn it,” he cursed. That drink hit him harder than he thought. Downing it on an empty stomach didn’t help. Steve found a hunk of leftover cornbread beneath a kitchen towel and crammed half of it into his mouth, hoping that would help.

His stomach was grateful, but his head refused to clear. Steve removed his jacket and collapsed into a chair so he could remove his stubborn, dirt-caked boots. He left them in the mud room and made his way back to his bedroom, thankful that he didn’t have to climb any stairs. Steve sagged down onto the bed, dressed with rough muslin sheets and his mother’s heirloom quilt; its scent was comforting to him, and familiar.

Home.

Even surrounded by belongings that he’d dragged across the country packed in his old wagon, his house felt lonely, and Steve shed his clothing and crawled beneath the covers, wondering if Sam would ever accept an invitation to come inside. As he drifted off to sleep, his body seemed to shift and melt. And Steve dreamed of a dimpled, gap-toothed smile and laughing dark eyes.

*

“Is that Rogers boy still harping on about the fence?” Gideon asked as Sam poured soup into his bowl with a long-handled metal ladle. “It looks fine to me.”

“There are a few rotted boards. Redwing pushed his way through after I filled in the hole he dug for himself to get under it. I’ve been meaning to get to town to buy a few planks and fix it. He’s not wrong, Gid, but I just haven’t been in a hurry.”

“He still seems like a handful. He’s still trying to fix up his pa’s place by himself?”

“His grandpa, and he’s got friends out there, finally. Which is a good thing, because he’s been loud and clear about not wanting _my_ help.”

“Can’t imagine why not. Don’t know why he’s being picky.”

“Maybe he’s embarrassed,” Sam reasoned. “A man likes to feel like he can handle things himself and be self-reliant.”

“There’s self-reliant, and then there’s stubborn. Steve Rogers just strikes me as stubborn,” GIdeon insisted. Sam laughed as he poured Gideon some milk and fussed over their plates, slicing bread and setting out butter and jam. “This looks good, Sammy! You did all this?”

“I do just fine in the kitchen,” Sam claimed. “I can do for myself.”

“You just don’t want Mama to find you a wife.”

“I don’t _need_ Mama to do any such thing.”

“What are you gonna do about giving her some grandkids?”

“Wait for _you_ or Sarah to give ‘em to her, that’s what.”

Sam finally seated himself and dug into his own bowl of stew. He threw in a little extra cayenne pepper, just for a little heat, and it made their noses run, but it was satisfying, stick-to-your-ribs food. Noon rolled around faster than either of them expected, and Sam felt a little concerned that he hadn’t seen Steve yet that morning. Usually, he was up with the roosters, out in his yard feeding his flocks and herd, planting or slopping the hogs. Sam had briefly taken over those duties in addition to his own farm after old Joseph Rogers passed, until Paul received word from the Rogers’ family solicitor that old Joe had an heir, after all, and that one Steven Grant Rogers was coming from New York State. Then, Sam saw Steve up on that roof, and any illusions that he might have of the two of them becoming friends had dried up, unrealized.

And it was a shame. Steve was a hard worker. Honest. Blunt. There were moments where he was funny, and Sam saw intelligence shining in those pale blue eyes.

“What about Miss Rambeau?”

“Who? Monica? The school teacher?”

“She’s fine, Samuel. That is one fine looking woman, and she has her eye on you. You’re the only one not paying attention.”

“Then, maybe _you_ should court her. Visit her at the school house. Be my guest.”

“You should be _her_ guest. Don’t be hardheaded, dummy. That’s a _good woman._ You don’t just let a woman with _hips_ like that slip by!”

Sam tsked, chuckling and shaking his head. “She _is_ fine.”

And she was. Sam noticed Monica coming out of the general store, dressed like a fashion plate in a dark gray wool dress and jacket, with a straw hat sitting high atop her soft, dark curls, styled in a pompdour. Those catlike, dark brown eyes caught Sam’s, and she gave him a smile that would make a man weak in the knees. Sam smiled back and moved along, and it was flattering to get that kind of attention from a beautiful, intelligent woman.

And Sam cursed the day that Steve Rogers turned his head, because if not for him, Sam would be a frequent visitor at the school house. And that would make his mama _very_ happy.

“Then, talk to her!”

“I just don’t know how much we have in common.”

“You need a good woman. Someone like Monica might be a good partner.”

“What if a good partner isn’t necessarily a good woman?” Sam challenged.

GIdeon’s spoon hovered just shy of his mouth. Gravy dripped from the lump of potato that he was about to eat, and he sighed gustily.

“So, it’s like that, huh?”

“Afraid so, Gid.”

“Damn.”

But Gideon smirked at his younger brother and decided, “Guess I’ll just have to pay a visit to the school house my own self.”

Sam snickered as he dragged a hunk of bread through the broth in his bowl.

*

Steve woke up muzzy headed and overheated. He managed to kick himself free from the blankets and yawned, a mewling little noise that surprised him. He sneezed and huffed and sat up on his haunches, giving himself a little shake.

His room looked too large.

… why was everything so _large?_

Steve tumbled out of bed and padded down the corridor toward the kitchen, hoping there was some cornbread left.


	2. He’s a Handful

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve stumbles into trouble and straight into Sam WIlson’s heart. Perhaps not the way he planned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has a puppy. And Sam Wilson being sweet and cuddly. You’re welcome.
> 
> ADDITIONAL IMPORTANT NOTE: There is also some gun violence. Sorry. My muse is a drunk bitch. But I promise it's brief.

Sam _definitely_ worried when Steve failed to appear by the time the sun shifted west in the sky. “Where is he today?” he muttered as he wiped his brow with the cuff of his sleeve. Redwing wagged his tail eagerly as Sam knelt down to scratch behind his ears. “Have you seen him, boy? You seen Steve?” His dog whined back at him petulantly, wanting more attention that Sam easily gave. Sam glanced around Steve’s property line. None of his chores had been started, and there was no smoke coming from his chimney. No food smells drifting on the breeze. That made Sam’s gut clench.

Sam’s plowing could wait a little while longer for him to finish. He needed to check on Steve.

*

Steve was relieved that his home hadn’t been broken into the night before, despite the fact that he forgot to lock the door. Thankfully he hadn’t, or he wouldn’t have been able to work the door open on his own. Paws were proving to be _very_ inconvenient for his needs.

It took a while for the initial shock to wear off once he realized he’d changed overnight. Steve couldn’t identify this new urge to have to smell everything, but scents were sharper and more defined, and he was so close to the ground, at a much better vantage point to experience all of them. Steve made his way into the kitchen, sniffing along the floor boards until he found a few crumbs of spilled cornbread. He lapped at those and hopped up onto his hind legs, scratching at the table leg, but he couldn’t reach the top of the nearby chair in order to get to the table top. 

The morning wasn’t starting off well. Steve yipped in disappointment and scampered outside. His entire world became so much bigger and more frightening.

Yet, it was exciting. 

A yellow monarch butterfly glided past him, and Steve barked at it, attracted to its bright colors and movement. He chased it for a while, until it changed its trajectory and flew higher than he could reach. Steve explored the yard and then remembered the garden; he would find something edible out there, surely. He remembered the carrots he’d planted in the spring. He darted out back and found the carefully arranged garden beds and sniffed around in the dark soil, pawing through the roots and grubs. He huffed and sneezed, then got to digging once he saw the bushy green tops of the carrots. It took him a good fifteen minutes to work one loose, unearthing its bright orange flesh, and he tugged it, feeling the strain in his jaws as he worried it with his teeth, until it finally pulled loose. _Success!_ Steve settled down and chewed on it, attempting to ignore the clumps of dirt still clinging to it, but it beat an empty stomach.

It still didn’t solve his immediate problem: Steve was apparently a dog. A puppy, if his reflection in a puddle just outside his barn was any indication. Steve stuck a front paw into it and watched the surface ripple, distorting his reflection, but those were shaggy, golden blond ears and a soft muzzle with a dark, shining nose that wiggled when he wiggled his. He whined in dismay. Life on his farm was already difficult, but how would he feed himself? How would he manage the trek into town? How was he going to support himself and make his way? 

He’d left the door ajar to the house, so at least he could get back in, but he wasn’t big enough to reach anything he needed. And he needed a cleaner source of water than a puddle; there was no telling what was floating in this one, but the last thing Steve needed was dysentery…

Steve considered the fence separating his property from Wilson’s. He would never manage to unlatch the gate to let himself in, obviously. Then, he noticed a dark place in the dirt near the edge of the fence, and he trotted toward it. The closer he came, he noticed that it was a freshly dug hole, and he hurried for it eagerly. The run for the fence was longer than he anticipated, and his legs were short and stubby. This entire day was going to be a challenge, but there was something daunting about spending the day _alone_ in this state. 

And Sam, despite his love of laughing at Steve’s expense, was at least _kind_.

Steve reached the hole by the fence; it looked a lot like the one he’d refilled the day before, after Wilson’s blasted dog tunneled through again. It looked like Redwing had given up on it, though. Steve could only assume he’d gotten distracted by something else, or maybe Wilson took him out hunting? Who knew? In the meantime, Steve wouldn’t have to work that hard (hopefully) to break through. How hard could it be?

It was time for Steve to pick up where Redwing left off.

*

Before Sam reached the gate, he noticed something working its way out of the ground below the edge of the fence boards, and he chuckled.

“I see you, little critter. What are you doing over there?”

Sam headed toward the movement and noticed sandy fur and tiny paws scrabbling and digging in the soil, through the tall blades of grass. “Honest to God… a puppy?” Sam heard it whining, and he bent down and started digging through the soil himself with his fingers, trying to give the little thing some more room to make its way the rest of the way through.

“Where did you come from, little fella?” Sam knelt down and crooned over the sandy ball of fluff. The pup’s fur was matted around its front leg. Looked like it got trapped somewhere tight and fought its way free. The pup whined and yipped, snuffling at Sam’s outstretched hand. Sam felt an unwelcome warmth flood his chest. The last thing he needed was one more mouth to feed. Then, the little varmint nosed at his hand and licked his palm.

“So, that’s how it is?” Sam laughed and scooped it up, cradling it against his chest. The pup nosed his chin, wriggling against him, and just kept sniffing at him with his damp little nose. He gave Sam several damp kisses, and Sam ruffled his ears. The pup made himself at home, enjoying Sam’s body heat. “All right. That’s fine. Somebody’s missing you, boy.”

The pup looked like a golden labrador, with a healthy, sandy coat and reddish eyelashes. He even had a little freckle of white fur on its forehead. It’s one intriguing feature that puzzled Sam, though, were its eyes; they were a pale, pearly blue.

“Thought you dogs usually had brown eyes,” Sam mused. “Sure are cute, boy. I might have a little something left over for you to eat.”

Sam set him down and began to walk to the house, but the dog whined pitifully until Sam came back and picked him back up. “You’re already spoiled,” Sam told him.

Meaning he would just have to spoil him some more.

Redwing had some strong opinions about this notion. Steve burrowed more deeply into Sam’s chest as they drew closer to the house. Redwing began to bark loudly, wagging his tail, and if waking up as a dog wasn’t strange enough for Steve, actually _understanding_ Sam’s dog left him flummoxed.

**This isn’t your house. What are you doing over here?**

Steve whined and yipped. **I don’t know where else to go. I’m too small to reach anything that I need.**

Redwing trotted over, cocking his head, and Sam reached down to give him some hearty scratches. “I brought you a little brother,” he teased. “Haven’t decided what to name him yet. Maybe you can come up with something, huh? Be nice, boy.”

He set Steve down, and the dogs gave each other a thorough sniffing.

Redwing barked. **Steve? Angry human? You wouldn’t let me eat your chickens?**

**I need them for eggs. They’re expensive.**

All Sam heard were the puppy’s yips and whimpers and saw how he hunkered back onto his haunches, looking unsure of himself around Sam’s Irish setter. 

**This is MY house. Sam is MY human.**

**I don’t know where else to go.**

Redwing sighed, a huffy and indignant sound, and Sam laughed.

“Hope you two are reaching an agreement. Otherwise, it’s going to be tense around here. Behave, boy. He’s just a little fella.”

Redwing growled low in his throat and trotted back into the house, tail swinging low behind him. Sam sighed.

“Well, that went well. Let’s get you something to eat.”

Sam fetched a bowl and ladled some leftover stew into it, and Steve devoured it eagerly, sneezing a little over the pepper in it, but the soft chunks were easy to chew compared to the raw, dirty carrot from his own garden. He lingered over it, licking at the bowl even after the last of the broth was gone.

Sam knelt down and gave the puppy a few more scratches, earning himself more kisses. “You are so cute. I know someone’s got to be upset that they lost you, boy. I sure would be. Are you Steve’s dog?” he wondered aloud. “I don’t see him as much of a dog man, but I think he could use the company. That man’s so _uptight_. And he’s stubborn. That man is _so_ stubborn.”

Steve growled in resentment, making Sam chuckle.

“You don’t agree?”

Steve whined and nosed at Sam’s knee. Sam sighed.

“Well, he is. I mean, he isn’t a bad fella at all. I think he’s just lived alone for too long. Doesn’t know how to relate to people anymore. Mama said that loss does things like that to people, too. Hardens their spirit and makes them not want to open up.”

Sam took the bowl and set it in the washtub before he went out to pump some water to finish the dishes. Steve followed him into the kitchen and sniffed around, growing familiar with the room. It smelled like Sam, and immediately, Steve began to relax. It was also pleasantly warm from the heat of the stove, and Steve trotted up to it and turned himself in a circle before lying down. 

“Make yourself at home,” Sam teased.

Steve stared up at him with adoring eyes and sighed. At least he was safe. And he was in good company.

*

Steve only needed another hour before he got the hang of “taking care of business” out in the back yard. It felt strange not using the outhouse, but he knew that would probably puzzle Sam if he made his way in there to do that very thing. Steve wondered how to go about letting Sam know that things weren’t what they seemed, and that he wasn’t just a dog. Steve had no idea how long he would be stuck like this. He just didn’t know his purpose, in the meantime. What were dogs even supposed to do all day long?

Sam didn’t keep chickens. Steve knew that made his own yard a pretty big temptation to Redwing for that reason alone, and he let Redwing know his opinions on that matter.

**You leave my henhouse alone. Or I’ll tell Sam.**

**Go ahead, runt. See what he tells you.** Redwing yawned at him and went back to chewing on one of Sam’s old shoes by the edge of the bed.

**Why are you doing that?**

**Feels good between my teeth. I like chewing things. And I get bored.**

Which… strangely, made perfect sense to Steve the puppy.

Moments later, Steve was chewing diligently on the mate to that shoe, and Sam exclaimed in annoyance.

“What…? I know the two of you aren’t in here chewing on my shoes! Redwing, stop setting a bad example, give me that!”

Redwing groaned and whined, but Sam said, “Drop it!” in a firm tone, as he pointed his finger at the ground. He dropped the shoe. “You too, boy!” he told Steve. The pup whimpered and followed suit. “We’re going to have to set a few ground rules. No chewing my shoes. No doing your business in the house. No jumping on the bed when I’m not here.”

Sam lectured both dogs as he shooed them outside. Steve was grateful that Sam let Redwing sleep inside instead of making him stay out in the barn the night before. The outdoor sounds of crickets and owls made him uneasy once the sun went down, and it was chilly out there. Steve was small and didn’t have much of a protective layer of fat under his fur, and he craved the warmth of blankets. The only other source of available heat was Redwing, and Steve huddled against him at first, but Redwing huffed and trotted away from him, curling up in the corner.

**Leave me be, runt.**

Fine, then.

Steve huddled by the stove again and finally managed to fall asleep on the braided rug, right beside the stove. It wasn’t much of a bed, but it would do. He woke up in the middle of the night with the urge to urinate. He yipped and whimpered and scratched at the kitchen door. Redwing sighed in his sleep and rolled over onto his back. Steve kept scratching at the door, wishing he could turn the knob himself.

He heard slow, lumbering footsteps creaking along the floor boards upstairs, before Sam reached the kitchen, yawning and rubbing his eyes.

“Of course you want out,” he muttered. “C’mon, now, hurry it up and do your thing.”

Sam opened the door, and Steve gratefully scuttled out, darting into the tall grass to relieve himself. Sam chuckled. 

“Make it count. I don’t wanna have to come back down here until dawn, boy.”

Steve abandoned the puddle he’d made in the dirt and skipped back inside to the welcoming warmth. Sam stared down at him as Steve sat there, watching him expectantly, wagging his tail.

“You’re a good boy. Wish I knew who you belonged to.”

Steve hurried forward and sniffed at Sam’s ankles, licking them.

“Go lie down.”

Steve returned to the rug.

“Damn, you’re good boy. And you’re just a puppy. Smart dog. G’night.”

Sam felt guilty leaving him behind, but he knew if he let the new puppy upstairs to sleep, Redwing would want to come too. Then, he’d have no room for himself and no rest. House rules were house rules.

But that pup was making it hard. He was just so adorable. And needy.

*

The puppy made Sam question the choice to keep him all day long the next morning. He kept getting underfoot and getting into everything. He dug holes in Sam’s vegetable garden and helped Redwing devour a large squash that was finally big enough to sell at the market. Steve ran after Redwing while the bigger dog chased the cattle from the fence into the pasture. Steve barked as loudly as his vocal cords would allow, and Sam chuckled at his efforts. Sam worked in the barn, mucking out stalls and brushing his horses. Steve followed hot on Redwing’s heels for most of the afternoon, much to Sam’s relief when Sam accidentally stepped on him as he was coming out of the outhouse, sending the pup yelping away.

“I didn’t mean it! Damn it, dog! I didn’t mean it!” Steve eyed him sorrowfully and from a distance, but then trotted back for attention, and Sam cuddled him in apology.

“Warn a man when you’re right outside the door, boy. C’mon, now.”

Redwing kept trying to nudge Steve aside from his food dish once he was finished with his own. Steve yapped at him, growling a warning. Redwing huffed at him and backed off, only to do the same thing again moments later. Steve growled again, and Redwing backed off. Sam watched them in amusement as he ate his own sandwich and fruit. 

“That’s it, little man, don’t back down.”

“HEY, WILSON!”

Sam looked up from his meal and rose from the table. He peered through the kitchen curtains and smiled before going outside. James Rhodes walked his horse through Sam’s gate and locked it behind him. “Your brother told me you were going to replace your fence. I thought I might stop by and see if you needed help.”

“I never say no to help. Not like my neighbor over there, but I haven’t seen him for a while.”

They met in the field and shook hands companionably. The kitchen door bounced open slightly when Sam didn’t close it all the way, and Steve darted outside, with Redwing hot on his heels. Both dogs greeted their visitor with wagging tails, and Rhodes laughed at the new addition.

“Who’s that little mongrel?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t named him yet, but he pays attention when I call him ‘dog.’”

“You don’t know where he came from? No one you know had a dog expecting a litter?”

“Nope.”

“Awwww,” he crooned, stooping to pet the puppy, who came to him easily enough, but Redwing shouldered his way between him and Steve, demanding attention first. “Okay, now, somebody’s jealous! Don’t get your britches twisted, Redwing, I love you, too. C’mere!”

Sam gave him a smug grin as he watched his older dog acting dramatic. “I could’ve told you that would happen as soon as you even looked at that puppy. Redwing has it in for him. I keep hoping they will get used to each other.” Rhodes enjoyed himself, letting both dogs crowd him, accepting Redwing’s kisses as the puppy stood up on his hind legs and leaned against his knee where he was crouched.

“They will. Just remember how you and GIdeon used to fight. Your mama loves to tell me almost every time I see her in church how GIdeon once shoved you off of a horse and claim that the wind blew you off. And I know even your seat isn’t that bad…”

“Man, just shut the hell up,” Sam shot back, but he was grinning and punched his friend’s shoulder companionably.

“I’m gonna tell your mama that you cussed!”

“Just wait til we start working on that fence if you want to hear me cuss,” Sam promised. “I’ve been dragging my feet to start it long enough.”

“Then, let’s get it done.”

Sam filled two canteens from the pump with water, and they went to work on the fence. Rhodes showed Sam the planks he picked up in town before he came by.

“I almost wish I had gone into town myself. I could have asked around about this puppy,” Sam said.

“Why? Why not just keep him? Maybe you were meant to have him, even if he is a runt.”

“He’s not a runt,” Sam argued.

“Samuel Thomas Wilson. That dog is a _runt._ Especially if he fights as hard as you told me he did for food. You know he was at a disadvantage trying to get to his mama’s milk ahead of the rest of the litter.”

“He’s scrappy, I’ll give you that.” Sam’s voice was fond. “Funny. Maybe I should name him ‘Steve.’”

“What?! After that little neighbor of yours?”

“He’s scrappy like him. Even reminds me of him, a little. He might resent it if I call this dog and he answers to it from across the field, thinking that I’m talking to him, but it kind of fits.”

Steve yipped, unsure of whether to be insulted. Would he really want WIlson to name his dog after him using that logic? On the other hand, at least it beat being called “boy” or “dog” all the time.

“Steve,” Sam told him.

Steve yipped again.

“That dog is something else,” Sam told Rhodes as they tore off the rotted boards with the claw teeth of their hammers. “I think he understands what I’m telling him, and he doesn’t seem old enough to have had a lot of training yet.”

“Are you really sure you want to keep him, then? That dog’s probably listening to all your secrets and knows your business.”

Sam just laughed.

“Then, I guess I just can’t let him fall into the wrong hands.”

They toiled away at the fence until the middle of the afternoon.

“At least now Steve will be happy.”

“Why? Has he really made that much of a fuss about the fence?”

“He made a fuss about my dog getting into his chickens, which I understand, but he was so lathered up about it.”

“Because once dogs get a taste of chicken, fresh from the kill, they go back for more, so I get it,” Rhodey told him. “Maybe he didn’t come from much.”

“I don’t know what or even where he came from, except that he’s from New York,” Sam reasoned. “And for all I know, despite that I feel like I know better, this could be _his dog._ ”

Steve listened to them with interest and eventually joined Redwing by the pasture, watching the cows munch on grass and swish away flies.

“I just feel like I should check on Steve, but I don’t know where he is. His wagon is still here. I haven’t seen anyone go in or out.”

“You haven’t checked on him yet?”

“Maybe I will tonight.”

“Make sure his place is locked up, then,” Rhodey told him. “At least that way, none of his things will go missing while he’s gone. Might as well be a good neighbor, I guess.”

“Yeah.”

Because Sam was still worried, and he didn’t know if Steve even had anyone else to check on him that he trusted.

*

But when the two men sat down to supper in Sam’s kitchen, they heard someone pull up to the gate. Clint and Bucky rode in on Clint’s wagon and up Sam’s drive, which he wasn’t expecting.

“What are those two doing here?”

“I don’t know. They weren’t due to come by here.”

Sam greeted these additional uninvited guests with more than a hint of confusion. “What brings you here?”

“We just left Stevie’s place. We were gonna help him finish patching his roof, even though he told us he didn’t need any help, but it’ll get done faster with a couple extra hands.”

“And we haven’t seen him since we took him to Amora’s place the other night,” Clint added. “I know he’s tiny, but I figured he could hold his liquor, and he only had one drink.”

“You took him drinking?” Sam whistled, impressed. “Never would have figured him for a drinking man.”

“He’s really not,” Bucky corrected him. “We got into his daddy’s rotgut, once, when we were still in school. Once was enough. Stevie has stomach ulcers, and that stuff made him sick as a dog.”

“Now, I’m _definitely_ worried,” Sam said. 

“We just checked his place, and he isn’t there,” Clint said. “And the front door’s hanging wide open.”

“Okay,” Sam said. His brow furrowed. “Say, did he ever mention anything about getting a dog?”

“A dog?” Clint looked interested. “What dog?”

“This critter.” Sam nodded to the puppy, and Clint bent down, crooning to it in delight.

“Hey, boy! Look at you, you handsome devil! What a sweet boy! You never did a thing wrong in your life.”

“Now you’ve done it. Clint makes a jackass out of himself for dogs of any persuasion.”

“Shut up, Buck. Dogs are better than people by a country mile.”

“Stevie’s not really a dog person,” Bucky mentioned. “One of our neighbor’s dogs bit him when we were kids, once. Big, mean Doberman. That’s how he got that little scar under his eye. He hasn’t trusted ‘em since.”

“That’s a shame,” Sam mused. “I think he and Redwing got off on the wrong foot.”

Steve longed to tell him that was an understatement.

“I’ll make sure his place is locked up tonight and that he doesn’t have any food out to spoil before I turn in.”

“That’s fine, Sam.”

“It’s the least I can do, Barnes.”

*

Sam was exhausted by the time night fell, but he remembered his promise to Bucky and Clint. He headed out of his kitchen and took a lantern with him, using it to light his way across the field. He heard low huffing and panting behind him and smiled when Steve caught up to him, nearly tripping him. “C’mon then, Steve,” he teased, continuing to use his neighbor’s moniker. Sam noticed that there were no lanterns lit, so Steve hadn’t returned while they were busy in the yard. It was so strange that he hadn’t surfaced yet.

Sam entered his kitchen and found a pan of cornbread that had gone stale. Sam emptied it outside, dumping it into the compost heap and covering that back up with the tarp. He set the dish in Steve’s wash tub and found a broom to sweep up the crumbs while he was there. Oddly enough, he found a lantern with a burned-down wick, with mere dregs of kerosene left in the bottom, like someone left it lit until it went out.

Sam wandered throughout the house, calling his name. “Are you there, Steven? Hello?” He felt foolish, since every room was dark and empty as he walked past each door, but the puppy whined low in his throat. “You sure you don’t know where he is, dog?”

Steve yipped and scampered into the bedroom in the back. Sam wandered through, noticing that there weren’t many heirlooms or knick-knacks. There were a few whatnot shelves and a bookcase, and some silver-framed daguerreotypes hanging on the walls. Sam noticed a picture of a man who had to be Steve’s father, wearing a soldier’s uniform, looking tall, robust and sharp. Steve’s mother was petite and delicate looking, with her son’s eyes. Sam knew they had to be blue as he held up the lantern to get a better look. Something in her face radiated kindness.

Sam shone the light into every corner of the room, noticing the unmade bed and scattered clothing. He noticed Steve’s work clothes on the floor but no nightshirt. Sam had passed Steve’s boots in the mud room. Sam’s eyes landed on a book on the vanity. He picked it up and opened it and found pencil and charcoal sketches. “Goodness,” he murmured. “Look at that.”

Each one was drawn with a steady hand, in stunning detail. Sam wondered if he stood in place in every location and just drew what he saw, or if he rendered these from memory. “Beautiful.” Sam never would have known about this side of Steve if he hadn’t seen this himself. Sam felt a little guilty, going through his things like this, but he figured it would be okay if he straightened up and left the house a little neater than he found it.

He kept reading through the sketch journal and paused at the last few pages. They were recent; Steven even put the dates that he sketched them below each one. This one was less than a week old, and Sam stared down in awe and wonder at the sketch of himself. Perfectly rendered. Those were his eyes, crinkled at the corners while he smiled. That was his favorite felt Stetson hat and the bandanna tied at his throat that Mama cut from her quilt scraps. He recognized the gap between his teeth, firm brows, and small ears. “That’s how he sees me?” he mused. Sam huffed, smiling as he felt his cheeks warm. Well. 

There were more, and Sam realized perhaps for the first time how often his neighbor watched him. There was a sketch of him with Redwing, and another of Sam on his horse. And one of Sam napping in the rocking chair on his front porch. It was drawn as though from far away, so Steve wouldn’t have been hovering over him when he captured him in pencil, but still. It seemed intimate and furtive, and he wondered how Steve would explain himself if Sam asked about this.

He turned to the pup, who began to whine again and pawed at Sam’s boot.

“Did you know about this?”

Steve whimpered and wagged his tail.

“Oh, you did? Did you see how he caught me on my good side?” Sam joked, but he still set the book down where he found it and made up the bed, straightening the covers and retucking the sheets. There was a nightshirt tucked under the pillow that Steve never managed to put on, perhaps. Steve was sniffing at something under the vanity, and Sam shone his lantern down there, finding something shiny. He crouched down and reached for it, and he picked up Steve’s reading spectacles. That made him feel a frisson of panic.

“He needs these,” he said. “He wouldn’t have left without these, wherever he was going, boy.”

The puppy sniffed at them and licked Sam’s hand. Sam cuddled him to reassure the dog, and himself. Sam tucked the glasses into his shirt pocket, picked up the puppy, and he left the house once he locked up. There was nothing else left out that didn’t belong out in the open, like jewelry, a pocketwatch, or money, so Sam would rest easy that Steve’s valuables were safe in the meantime.

*

Sam went into town the next day and took Steve with him, tucking the puppy into his jacket to keep him warm, something that Steve had _absolutely_ no problem with. He enjoyed Sam’s scent and being that close to his heartbeat, and it was a nice vantage point after being so low to the ground for the past few days.

Sam asked Thor, the owner of the general store, if he recognized the puppy or if anyone he knew had a recent litter.

“I’m afraid not, my friend. But he’s gorgeous.” He held out his hand for Steve to inspect and grinned when the puppy gave him licks of approval. “Perhaps you were meant to have him. It might be a sign.”

“I didn’t plan on another dog, but he’s growing on me. It’s going to be hard to say goodbye to him if anyone comes along to claim him. I almost want to just hide him at home until he’s grown and he gets used to being mine.”

Steve licked Sam’s chin, and Sam chuckled and scratched those floppy little ears.

“Then, I hope no one claims him,” Thor told him as he packed up Sam’s order and helped him load it into his wagon.

Sam asked around at the parcel shop and telegram office, the barber shop, the millinery, and the butcher’s, but no one recognized the dog. Sam warmed a little each time he heard a denial; the puppy might just end up his to keep.

He stopped at his parents’ home in the middle of town, less than a mile from the church. Darlene Wilson was arranging small sweet cakes on a plate and dusting them with sugar when Sam walked in.

“Goodness gracious. What are you doing with that animal in my nice, clean house, Samuel?”

“Just keeping him safe. He’s a handful,” Sam told her, “but he’s a sweetheart.”

“When did you get a new puppy?”

“Since I found him wandering and sniffing around. He got through my fence.”

“So, does he belong to that neighbor of yours, then?”

“I don’t think so. I would have heard him if he got himself a dog. He just showed up, and I fed him, and here we are.”

Despite her scolding, Darlene reached out to pet him. “He _is_ sweet.”

Steve soaked up the affection and attention like a fresh dishrag. He scrambled up over the flap of Sam’s coat, and Darlene chuckled as she scooped him up and cradled him against her chest. She smelled just as good as Sam but felt softer. Steve enjoyed the vibrations of her sweet, light voice as she spoke. “I was kidding when I told Barnes and Barton that I was thinking of naming the dog ‘Steve.’”

“Sam. That’s ridiculous. That would be rude. Don’t take that man’s name in vain like that, he’ll think you’re insulting him. He’s nice enough, just a little stiff. He helped me load my wagon when I went to the store last week. Tipped his hat and everything.”

“Hm.”

Steve remembered that. Darlene’s smile was so much like her son’s. She owned such warmth and grace, and Steve only wished he got along better with her son. Although if things continued the way they were…?

“Just seems like he would belong to someone already. A puppy this young wouldn’t wander far from its mother.”

“He’s smart, though. Someone already trained him.”

“Good. At least he won’t make a mess in the house.”

“Do you want him, then?”

“Heavens, no. Bite your tongue, Samuel.” She gave the puppy a peck on its furry head and handed him back over. “I don’t need a dog getting into mischief and into my things. That cat your brother brought home back when you were little clawed up my nice ottoman, and I had to put him out.”

And messing up Darlene WIlson’s furniture was an unforgivable sin. Sam’s mother was as fearsome as she was sweet.

“Steve and I can see our way out. Bye, Mama.”

Steve returned to the warm of Sam’s coat and snuggled back down, pleased with the day’s outcome. He was still a puppy, but at least he was _Sam’s._

Somehow, there was nowhere else he’d rather be.

*

Sam stopped at the end of the street and untied his horse from the post, giving the chestnut mare an affectionate pat before he mounted. But before he could climb into the saddle, a swarthy man with three days’ worth of dark stubble on his lean jaw and shrew brown eyes stopped him.

“Hey. I heard you were asking around town about who might own that mutt you’re carrying. I’m Brock.”

“Haven’t seen you around before,” Sam told him.

“I’m new. But, hey, I know the man who probably owns that dog. He had one get loose a few days ago. He lives right here in town. His name’s Jack.”

Steve whined and squirmed against Sam. There was a strange, metallic tang on the man’s scent, and something about him made Steve uneasy. Brock reached out to stroke his fur, but Steve yapped and snapped his teeth, bunching up his muzzle and growling for all he was worth.

“Whoa, Steve,” Sam soothed as he backed up from Brock and clutched the front of his jacket flaps protectively. “It’s all right. No need to be impolite. Show some manners.” Privately, though, Sam didn’t blame him. Dogs were _excellent_ judges of character.

“The dog’s name is Jack?” Sam asked.

“Nah, dummy. My friend.”

Sam’s brows drew together, but he gave Brock a dry, brittle smile. “I think you have the wrong dog. This little fella showed up on my property. And I live a ways out of town.”

Brock’s eyes flitted over Sam, assessing him. They ran over Sam’s horse and the gleaming, new saddle and bridle. Everyone knew the Wilsons lived comfortably and that their sons were accomplished and big guns in town. 

“Dogs can get pretty far when they want to.”

“Especially when they’re somewhere they don’t want to be. Or if they’re not being treated right.”

Steve whined and squirmed, and Sam decided he had enough of this man and his insinuations. “I need to get home. Tell your friend Jack good luck finding his dog.”

“Yeah, maybe next time, partner.”

*

Sam rode home down the familiar gravel road. He didn’t see the two men following him at a distance as he made his way in through his gate.

“Now, all we gotta do is wait,” Jack told Brock.

“We’ve got all night. Look at that homestead. You saw his saddle. Wilson’s got money to burn.”

“I heard around town that the Rogers place is deserted right now. No one knows where he got off to, so that house is empty.”

“Easy pickings. We can clean that place out. He doesn’t have any hounds.”

“Wilson does, now.”

“I know that, jackass. We’ll take them out first. We can drown that pup in the river.”

*

Sam sat down in his favorite chair that night after supper and read a book by the fire. Redwing slept at his feet, but Steve insisted on occupying his lap. He was good and comfortable, too, yawning and stretching across the soft blanket Sam tucked around himself, and Sam was so drowsy and content. Part of him wished that Steve - the man, not his newly christened pup - was around to share this with. Steve periodically nuzzled Sam’s hand, pleading for more gentle scratches and rubs that Sam was only too glad to provide. 

He took Steve’s reading glasses out of his shirt pocket, wondering why he was still carrying them around. He hummed to himself as he set them down on the small end table beside a framed picture of himself, GIdeon and Sarah when they were small. 

“I don’t think you belonged to Jack,” Sam told him. “A sweet boy like you didn’t get so sweet belonging to any friend of a man like Brock.”

Steve whimpered in agreement, flapping his tail against Sam’s knee.

“Mean men raise mean dogs,” Sam went on. “And we can’t have that. I don’t know if you planned on living here when you dug under my fence, pup, but you sure made yourself at home.”

Sam was still worried about Steve Rogers. His stomach tied itself in knots. He realized that he should have been spending just as much time asking about his neighbor’s whereabouts as he did about the dog’s owner, and Sam suddenly felt guilty. But somehow, he felt Steve would turn up soon, just as bossy and as much of a nuisance as he ever was. And maybe when he did, Sam could show him the fresh fence boards and invite him over to tea.

“Do you think Steve Rogers likes rhubarb? I’ve got a whole mess of rhubarb growing in my garden. I don’t even remember planting it, but I’ve had a hankering for some pie.”

Sam thought about Steve’s sketches, and he wondered if he should take that as a sign that Steve wouldn’t refuse the invitation if one was given.

Well.

He rose reluctantly and gathered Steve against his chest, making him whine at being moved. Redwing automatically rose too, and padded after Sam toward the bedroom. Sam didn’t shoo him out. For some reason, he felt like keeping the dogs close to him that night. He left the bedroom door ajar in case the dogs needed to be let out. Sam changed into his nightshirt and drew the bedroom curtains, shook out the spare blanket he’d been using, and spread it atop the bed for extra warmth. He set Steve on the bed and Redwing sprang up onto it and turned himself around before settling down, tongue lolling happily at being given permission to cuddle down for the night.

**You’re in my spot, angry puppy.**

**Sam said I can sleep here. Unless you want me to lie right down on you, and you _hate_ when I do that, so maybe _you_ should move.**

“Will you two stop grumbling at each other?” Sam climbed under the covers, and Steve scrambled up to the edge and burrowed under them, making Sam laugh. Redwing made a petulant sound, but Sam ruffled his ears. “That’s fine. Be that way, Steve. You’re going to make Redwing take it personally.”

Sam figured he would have a hard time drifting off to sleep with his dogs moving around on the bed, but once he heard their slow, panting breaths, he gradually slipped into dreams, lulled by the contact with their warm bulk and the pile of soft covers in the chilly room.

Brock and Jack waited outside, and they saw the lantern light extinguish through the windows.

“GIve it a few more minutes.”

“We can clean out the Rogers place first, if you want.”

“That’s fine.”

They found the door locked, and Brock used the stock of his rifle to smash the side window. 

Sam flinched in his sleep, and Steve and Redwing’s heads lifted up from the bedding. Steve whined; Redwing growled low in his throat. But then, everything outside went quiet again, and they settled back down.

Brock and Jack made their way in through the window, and Brock struck one of the matches he usually used to light his cigars. “Place is a dump. There’s probably nothing here.”

“Those picture frames are silver. So are those candlesticks. We can pawn ‘em.”

“Grab ‘em, then.”

“Here’s a nice gun.”

“Grab that, too.”

Jack took the rifle from where it sat in the corner of the kitchen. He rummaged through the cupboards and the sitting room. There was a silverware box full of slightly tarnished flatware that looked like it could still be valuable. That disappeared into Jack’s sack, and they kept moving through the house once Brock found a lantern and lit it. He shook out the match, and they searched the corridor and bedrooms.

Across the field, Steve dreamt of Sam. Of himself, talking to Sam from across the fence on a warm, mild day. 

_Sam was smiling at him. “You know, you could’ve asked me if you needed help fixing that roof. I’ve been told that I’m good at it.”_

_“I’m pretty handy with a hammer myself.” And Steve glanced down at the fence that he was leaning on. “But this fence looks pretty solid.”_

_“Did you just pay me a compliment? DId my ears just deceive me?”_

_“Don’t get your hopes up too high that I’m singing your praises just yet.”_

_“I wouldn’t dare.”_

_“It’s still a good looking fence.”_

_“Good fences make good neighbors.” Sam casually laid his hands over the tops of the boards, letting his fingers relax and curl over the grooves. “But so would you coming through that gate once in a while to visit. If you wanted.”_

_“It might be nice to catch up with you when your dog isn’t burrowing into my yard or getting into my henhouse.”_

_“I am sorry about that. He really is a good dog when you get to know him. He’s a good watch dog, too. Wakes me up as soon as he hears anything out of the ordinary outside.”_

_“He does?”_

Before Sam could open his mouth to reply, both of them heard sharp barking and clamor.

Steve woke up, startled, and he whined and yipped. Something was wrong. Redwing was growling and leapt off of the bed. Steve heard his claws clicking over the floorboards, and he struggled out of the covers. He hopped onto Sam’s chest and licked his chin, whining and scrambling for balance as Sam absently swatted at him before he realized what was happening.

“What in tarnation… Steve,” he muttered hoarsely. “Just got to sleep. D’you need to go out already?”

Steve yapped, and that brought Sam fully awake.

“Hey… where’s Redwing?”

Sam struggled out of bed, still bleary with exhaustion. Suddenly, he heard a low scuffle elsewhere in the house and what sounded like a muffled curse. Panic seized him, and Sam went on high alert. He went to the vanity and reached into the drawer, finding his pistol. He eased quietly out of the room, heart pounding, and he whispered to the puppy, “Stay, boy. Wait here.”

Steve shivered and smothered a whine, and he fidgeted atop the bed. The leap down to the floor was higher than would have liked. Steve decided to risk it, and he landed awkwardly, skidding and rolling across the floor, but he quickly scrambled out of the room after Sam.

As soon as he reached the corridor, he caught the familiar, unwelcome scent. _Stranger. Mean._ It was the man from downtown, and a second man, even larger and every bit as unpleasant. They both gave off a malevolent energy and smelled wrong. Like cigarettes and sour liquor. He heard Sam cock the pistol and chamber the first round. 

Redwing growled in the dark, and Sam heard one of them cursing again. “Damn dog! Get back, you sonofabitch!”

Redwing snapped and bared his teeth, and Sam watched Brock Rumlow brandish the lantern at his five-year-old setter menacingly, while his big, ugly friend cocked the rifle at him.

“What the hell are you doing in my house!?”

“Call off your mutt, damn it!”

“NO! Get your sorry behinds out of my house, damn it! You don’t belong here!” Sam raised the pistol and fired a warning shot just shy of Rumlow’s left ear, making both men jerk. Redwing bellowed a loud ruckus of barks and kept lunging at Rumlow and Jack. Rumlow darted out of the sitting room, but Jack took aim at Sam with his rifle. Sam ducked his shot, and the round tore through the wallpaper behind Sam. Sam dove behind the large chair with nailhead upholstery. He heard scuffling and his dog barking again, and this time, he heard the puppy yapping and growling, too.

“STEVE! GET OVER HERE!” Sam cried, suddenly panicked that they could harm a defenseless creature.

“Steve?!”

Steve yammered away, growling and snapping at them, and he leapt up and sank his teeth into Brock’s leg while Redwing went after Jack. Jack was a big man, and Redwing, even up on his hind legs, didn’t manage to reach any further than his, but he clamped his jaws around his forearm when he tried to block the dog’s lunge.

“Call him off! CALL HIM OFF, you bastard!”

“DON’T YOU HURT MY DOGS! YOU GET THE HELL OUT OF HERE!”

Suddenly, a shot rang out from outside the room, and Brock fell forward onto his knees. Shock contorted his features, and he reached up and palmed the wound on his chest where the bullet had exited. Blood stained his palm, and he stared up at Sam in angry disbelief. “What…?!” He fell forward and gurgled on the blood flowing out of his mouth. A second shot rang out, and Jack stumbled forward, too, with a hollow cry. This time, the bullet went through his head. Sam felt a wave of nausea hit him, and he choked back the urge to lose his supper. Jack’s rifle fell from his grasp as he hit the carpet. Brock was choking and his breathing grew harsh and agonal as the seconds passed. Sam stood shakily and hovered over him. His eyes flew to his dogs, and he let them hurry to his side. He sank to his knees and let Redwing and Steve lick his hands and face, and it felt surreal when Bucky and Clint entered his house grimly.

“You’re usually a better shot than that, Wilson,” Clint accused.

“Woke me out of a sound sleep,” he offered, but his voice sounded wet, and all Sam wanted to do was hold his dogs. There were two dead men in his sitting room, ruining the nice rug that Gideon gave him for Christmas, and Sam nearly lost his life. All because these two felt entitled to enter his home in the dark of night. They took advantage of Sam’s good intentions when he went into town and asked around about the puppy’s owner. 

That made up Sam’s mind. He was keeping Steve, no questions asked.

“Damn it, he’s crying.”

“He’s in shock.”

“I’m okay,” Sam argued.

“Bullshit,” Clint told him cheerfully. “Take a load off, Sammy. Stay here with the dogs. Buck and I will take out the trash.”

*

They dragged the bodies outside, and Clint and Bucky rode into town to gather the sheriff to tell them what happened. Sheriff Fury showed up with the undertaker in tow in his wagon, and they examined the bodies. They also went next door to Steve’s and found the broken window.

“They were here to clean you both out. Both of your houses, Mr. Wilson.”

“I ran into that man, Brock, in town earlier when I was asking around about my puppy’s owner. I found it on my property and wanted to make sure nobody was missing him. He’s a sweet boy.”

Nick gave him a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes, but he knelt down and petted him, and Redwing whined at him for attention, too. “They both are. A man needs a dog he can trust around these parts. I’m certain these men were trying to rob you and… what did you say your neighbor’s name was?”

“Rogers. Steven Rogers. He’s not here. I haven’t seen him for a few days, and I’m worried about him, but I think these men wanted to take advantage of the fact that he’s been gone, sir. I’ve been watching his property and waiting for him to return. He… he lives all alone. He doesn’t have anybody. No family. He’s a good man and he’s never made any trouble, and he works hard, sir. Please keep an eye out for him.”

“What’s he look like?”

“Tiny,” Bucky informed him. “Blond. Skinny. Wears reading glasses. Freckled. He’s Irish on his ma’s side.”

Sheriff Fury huffed, shaking his head. “All right. We’ll see if anyone matching that description turns up.” He nodded for the undertaker to come forward. “Load them up.”

“You know they’re guilty, right?” Clint pressed.

“Innocent men don’t end up with bullets in their backs,” Fury replied simply. “You gentlemen had better get some rest.”

*

Sam was still in shock when he went inside. He lit his lanterns and stoked up the fire, and Bucky gathered up one of his blankets and wrapped it around him when Sam wouldn’t stop shivering. Clint put Sam’s kettle on for tea and leaned against the arm of the chair that Sam sat on, giving his shoulder a firm squeeze. “You’re gonna be okay.”

“How did you two know to come here?”

“We didn’t. Not at first,” Bucky said.

“We wanted to check on Rogers’ place again, and when we rode up, we saw those horses out front and a lantern lit inside. That didn’t make any sense, with Steve not bein’ here. So, we rode up the drive, and I saw the broken window.”

“We were on our way to Amora’s again, so we never made it home. Still had our pistols.”

“Damn…”

“The dogs are all right, though, right?” Clint urged.

“Yeah,” Sam said. His voice still sounded watery and uneven. Clint squeezed his shoulder again, and Sam sagged back in his chair. His eyes were bloodshot and he was exhausted, but for the moment, his dogs were safe, they were all in one piece, and they hadn’t managed to make off with his or Steve’s belongings. Sam still felt like the sanctity of his home had been violated, and he needed some time to just calm down and get his bearings.

Clint and Bucky sensed that. “We’re staying here tonight, Wilson,” Bucky told him.

“I have a spare room,” Sam agreed.

“We’ll only need the one,” Clint assured him. Bucky smiled at him, nodding, and he rummaged through Sam’s cupboards for tea leaves and cups.

Redwing lay at Sam’s feet - _on_ Sam’s feet - while Steve lay on his lap. He kept licking Sam’s hands while Clint and Bucky fetched blankets for themselves and locked everything up for the night. They threw the ruined rug outside and cleaned up the floor so Sam wouldn’t have to wake up to bedlam in the morning. They urged Sam into his room once he had the chance to drink his tea. Clint set a chair by the doorway and sat there, waving to Sam.

“I’ll be right here, keeping watch, until you fall asleep.”

“You don’t have to.”

“Like hell, I don’t. You can’t tell me what to do.”

“You really can’t. Barton’s a stubborn bastard. I should know,” Bucky added dryly. 

And it helped. Sam was still shaken, but at least with his friends keeping lookout, he felt safe and accounted for, and he had his dogs. Both of them resumed their places in bed next to him, and he heard Steve’s huffy little breaths on the pillow beside him. Sam counted them in the dark until he fell asleep.


	3. Love, and All That Whatnot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I don’t normally allow critters in my saloon, but I get the feeling you wouldn’t take kindly to me putting that one out.”
> 
> “Begging your pardon, Miss Amora. I just can’t seem to let this little thing out of my sight. I’ve grown pretty partial to him.”
> 
> Her smile softened, then. “Have you, now.”
> 
> Sam stroked the puppy’s soft fur and kissed the top of its head. “He’s smart. And he’s sweet. I couldn’t help but get attached. I love my other dog, too, because he’s loyal and a good working dog to have on a farm, and I never needed another one. But this little thing... “
> 
> “It was just meant to be,” Amora agreed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is going to go about how you predicted. But I had fun.

Steve stretched instinctively toward the source of warmth beside him as he felt Sam’s fingers giving his head gentle scritches and ruffling his ears. Sam smelled like sleep and morning breath, and Steve panted in a dog’s approximation of a smile when he saw Sam’s dark eyes squinting back at him. 

“Hey, little fella,” Sam crooned. His voice sounded relieved and reassured, and Steve felt safe and cared for. Granted, he was still a dog, and Steve still couldn’t fathom what twist of fate brought him here. Steve wagged his tail and scrambled across the pillow to Sam, giving his chin wet kisses. “Awwwwww. C’mere. C’mon. Let’s rustle up something for breakfast for my two good boys.”

All right. Steve would still have to compete with Redwing, who yawned, hopped down from bed, and shook himself thoroughly. Sam set Steve down and mimicked him, making Sam laugh.

**There wasn’t much you could do, at your size, but you tried.**

Steve whined resentfully. 

**There were two of them. If I hadn’t tried, maybe neither of us would be here.**

**That’s fair.**

Redwing still made Steve compete for his own dish when Sam fed them both, but Steve yipped and snapped when Redwing’s nose dove into Steve’s bowl one too many times, and Redwing finally backed off. 

**I suppose you just want me to protect you, now.**

**I can manage just fine on my own.**

Steve wondered if that sound Redwing was making was a dog’s equivalent of laughter, and he yipped at him in umbrage.

“You boys be nice,” Sam scolded. “Maybe I need to put you to work.”

Sam fussed in the kitchen, assembling foods for breakfast. Clint gradually appeared once Sam made some strong coffee, fried eggs, and slab bacon fried extra crispy.

“Remind me and Buck to come get rid of burglars in your house more often if it means you’ll cook for us, Wilson.”

“I’ll make you breakfast if we don’t have to repeat last night, how about we do that instead?”

“Spoilsport.” But Clint gripped Sam’s shoulder and gave it a little shake. “I’m just glad we got here on time. I’m glad Bucky talked me into coming back here to check on Steve’s place.”

“He’s lying, Sammy,” Bucky argued as he wandered into the kitchen clad in only his longjohns. Clint poured coffee for all three of them, a tousled wreck himself and only wearing his faded white breeches. Bucky ruffled Clint’s hair in passing. “Clint talked _me_ into coming back to check on Stevie.”

“Fine, then. We were _both_ worried.”

“You won’t hear me begging you for a reason why you came by. Not when I’m still standing here.” 

“Just feed us, and we’re even.”

Sam grinned at Clint and dished up their plates. Clint sat down and cradled his cup in his hands, breathing in the aroma gratefully and looking like he would fight to protect it.

“What else do you need help with today, Sam?” Bucky asked as he wolfed down his eggs.

“I want to finish patching Rogers’ roof. I want to do that before I work on anything else, while it’s still nice and cool outside.”

“He’ll appreciate that,” Bucky told him, smiling and nodding.

“If he ever shows back up to even see it.”

Sam was still worried, yet he was relieved that Steve didn’t wake up in the middle of the night to his house being robbed. “We need to see about some new glass for that window of his, too.”

“We can take care of that today.”

“You don’t think he’ll get all prickly about it if we do it?” Clint asked.

“I don’t want him walking back into his house looking like it was invaded. It’s his home,” Sam said. “Steve… he’s had enough hardship. He’s prickly for a reason, you know?”

“Sometimes, Steve’s prickly for no reason at all,” Bucky argued. “He’s been my best friend for longer than I can remember, Wilson. Why are you being so protective of him? I didn’t think you two got on all that well.”

“We would if he would let me, every once in a while.”

Clint and Bucky exchanged knowing looks. Clint snorted into his cup.

“Bet you two would get on _very well_ if he would _let you_.”

Bucky swatted Clint upside the head, while Sam blushed up to his hairline and failed to hide his smile.

Steve trotted over to Sam and stood up on his hind legs, suddenly needing Sam’s attention. “Do you hear these two talking about me, Steve?”

“Oh, my Lord. Tell me you didn’t name the dog after Stevie?” Bucky looked equal parts appalled and thrilled.

“How couldn’t I? He’s tiny, blond, and scrappy. This puppy could have no better namesake than that.”

“You don’t think Steve might have some strong opinions about that?”

“Only if he comes back. I’m planning to spoil this little rascal until then, because he doesn’t seem to mind.”

“Don’t spoil him _too_ much. You’ve gotta keep him in line, Sammy.”

“I know that, Barnes.”

But Sam fed a very grateful Steve a scrap of bacon and was grinning adoringly at the puppy. “You did your job, just like a good dog. You and Redwing woke me up when there were folks in my house who didn’t belong.”

“Well, Bucky and I were good boys, too. Do we get more bacon?”

“All of you are going to eat me out of house and home. But, yes. Dig in. I’ll make more.”

*

Sam and Bucky worked on the roof while Clint replaced the broken window pane and swept up the shards of glass. Bucky went through the house, replacing the items that he retrieved from Brock’s burlap sack, since he was a frequent enough guest at Steve’s house to know where they belonged.

He set the framed pictures of Steve’s family back onto his whatnot shelves. “Bastards tried to take all of his silver. They didn’t care that these were all he had left of his family.”

Sam came inside while Bucky wiped away the fingerprints on the frame and dusted off the shelf. “He has no other kin?”

“Not around here. Some cousins that live a long way from these parts. But no one that we can notify if we don’t find Stevie, and I’m not gonna sleep until he shows back up again.”

“His horses are still here. His clothing is still here,” Sam mentioned easily.

Bucky furrowed his brow. “How do you know?”

“I looked around. I hope you don’t mind. You can’t blame me for being concerned.”

“Why do I feel like you’re more concerned than you’re letting on, Sammy?”

“You can’t blame me,” Sam repeated. “And I don’t feel like that’s anything I need to explain. C’mon. Let’s get his house in good shape for when he comes back.”

Bucky smirked. “Sammy’s sweet on Stevie. You don’t want to admit it.”

“Shut up and help me clean up.”

Steve edged himself inside through the kitchen door, which was slightly ajar. Redwing followed him and sniffed around the floor, looking for crumbs. 

**Just don’t break anything.**

**Why does it matter? You live with us, now. You don’t need any of this.**

That made Steve whine pitifully, and Bucky heard them and came into the kitchen, dropping down onto his haunches and beckoning to the puppy.

“Awww, boy. What’s the matter? Bless your little heart! Why are you crying?”

_Because this isn’t how I wanted Sam to see my place. I don’t want him to worry. And damn it, I wish I had arms, because I wish I could hold him._

“Redwing’s probably picking on him,” Bucky decided as he gathered Steve into his arms and gave his back a long, fur-ruffling rub. “You stand up for yourself, boy.”

“Put him down, then, and stop coddling him,” Clint suggested.

“Shut your mouth. There’s no such thing as ‘coddling’ when it comes to puppies. You know that.”

Clint shrugged, and his smile was fond. “That’s one of the only reasons why I like you, Barnes.”

“Sure, it is.”

Gideon and Rhodes stopped by later that afternoon and inspected Sam’s handiwork. Gideon tested the window, sliding it smoothly open and shut, then nodding his approval to his younger brother.

“Y’all still haven’t heard from him?” Gideon frowned at the kitchen, too long out of use. “That’s not natural.”

“I just feel like he hasn’t gone far,” Sam said. “I don’t know why. I can just feel it.” Sam wondered to himself if it was just because he was surrounded by Steve’s belongings. Touching some of them, and wandering around through his rooms was growing more familiar and comfortable, even if they were probably intruding.

“But he’s still fretting about it,” Clint accused.

“Because we _all_ are, jackass,” Bucky said.

“We asked about the dog, already, when we went into town,” Sam mused. “We should go back and ask around about Steve.”

“I can’t help but feel the last time anyone saw him around was when he was with _us_.” Clint shrugged. “Y’know what? Let’s go back to Miss Amora’s.”

“The saloon?” Bucky pumped himself some water, filling a bucket so that each of them could take a drink. “Are you planning to ask around about Steve, or just drink moonshine?”

“Why not do both?”

“Why not?” Rhodes said calmly. “Because we know we can trust a room full of men who have been drinking moonshine when the last time was that they saw Steve. I wasn’t seeing straight the last time I had a sip.”

“Well, I might trust them. I might,” Clint said. “But, let’s go.”

*

For reasons Sam couldn’t explain, he took Steve the puppy with him.

“Miss Amora and Miss Sif won’t want that critter in their establishment,” Gideon pointed out.

“He won’t be any trouble. Little Steve is a good boy, he’s smart. He’s better behaved than these two,” he said, nodding to Bucky and Clint. As though he agreed with Sam, Steve leaned his head up from the collar of Sam’s jacket and licked him, glad to have the opportunity.

“Should I be insulted by that?” Clint asked.

“Are you?” Bucky said.

Clint shrugged, then shook his head. “Wilson had better be glad that I like dogs, and that he fed me bacon and coffee today.”

*

They rode through town, stopping at a few local businesses, like Sam and GIdeon’s favorite cafe, and a confectioner’s shop, and they even stopped by the school house, at GIdeon’s suggestion. Sam acquiesced, knowing his brother thought it was perfectly logical - perfectly! - to ask Miss Rambeau when she saw Steve Rogers last.

She looked lovely, smiling warmly at Sam as both men walked up the steps. “Hello, there. Sam and Gideon Wilson! It’s been a long spell since I saw you last. What brings you to this side of town?”

“We were just running errands and picking up supplies.” Sam politely tipped his hat to her. Gideon, more noticeably, removed his and smoothed his hair down as a reflex, even though she found Sam and the small bundle tucked in his jacket riveting.

“What’s that you have there? Oh, isn’t just the sweetest!” she cooed.

“Don’t think he doesn’t know it, ma’am. We were hoping to ask you, Miss Monica. Have you seen my neighbor, recently? Steve Rogers?”

“Steve? Oh, you mean that smaller fellow? Big blue eyes and skinny?”

Steve growled, sounding almost wounded. Monica chuckled.

“What? Did I say something wrong, baby?”

Steve whined, and Sam laughed.

“I haven’t seen him around in a while. Last time that I recall, he took exception to a man in the general store trying to take liberties with Miss Van Dyne and met him out in the street. Poor man ended up with a puffy eye and a cut lip, but you could tell he was ready to go again.”

“The man that was bothering Miss Van Dyne?”

“No. Steve. He’s small, but he has spunk. He has strong opinions about how ladies should be treated.”

Sam thought back to the day in question, and that had been at least a week ago. Sam remembered seeing Steve in that shape, roughed-up and unwilling to talk about it when Sam pressed. At least now, he knew why. 

“I’d appreciate it if you let me know when you run into him next. It’s been some time since I’ve seen him come home, and I’m worried.”

“I hate to see you worry so much, Sam. You’re a good friend and a caring man.” Monica slid her hand down Sam’s upper arm, squeezing it warmly.

The puppy in Sam’s jacket growled and whined this time, even yipping in protest.

“Steve,” Sam muttered, chagrined. “Be polite.”

Steve huffed, nosing at Sam’s chin to win himself back into his good graces. Sam looked a little put out.

“We’ll be heading off,” Gideon said. 

“I’ll be keeping my eyes open for him.”

“Much obliged, ma’am. We’re looking forward to it.” Gideon grinned at her before they took their leave.

As they walked away, Sam muttered “Yes, you are.” He clapped his brother on the back knowingly.

“Your little friend won’t have a problem if I come back alone,” Gideon reasoned.

“You may be right.”

*

They reached the saloon and waded through the crowd, hoping for a seat near the bar. Sif was seated atop the piano while a tall, reed-thin man with glossy black hair and shrew green eyes played a rollicking tune. Sif led the room in a bawdy song while patrons dropped coins into the empty glass on the edge of the piano bench. Bucky and Clint were already seated at a table in the back, and they looked contrite as Sam greeted them.

“No luck. No one here has seen Stevie.”

“Someone has to have,” Sam insisted.

“All this asking around is making me thirsty,” Clint said. “I want a sarsaparilla. Or some whiskey, neat.”

“Some more of that moonshine might be nice. This place is getting crowded. I’ll be back in a minute.”

“I’ll go with you,” Sam said as he joined Bucky, and they made their way toward the bar. Steve fidgeted in his jacket, but no one paid much attention to the fact that he was smuggling a dog.

Except Amora, once they caught her eye. She gave them a haughty smile as she skillfully poured drinks.

“I don’t normally allow critters in my saloon, but I get the feeling you wouldn’t take kindly to me putting that one out.”

“Begging your pardon, Miss Amora. I just can’t seem to let this little thing out of my sight. I’ve grown pretty partial to him.”

Her smile softened, then. “Have you, now.”

Sam stroked the puppy’s soft fur and kissed the top of its head. “He’s smart. And he’s sweet. I couldn’t help but get attached. I love my other dog, too, because he’s loyal and a good working dog to have on a farm, and I never needed another one. But this little thing... “

“It was just meant to be,” Amora agreed.

“That scrappy thing tried to drive off a couple of robbers that broke into Sam’s place, and into Steve’s last night, too,” Bucky explained.

“Scrappy? Really?” Amora looked intrigued as she poured a glass of moonshine for Bucky before he’d even asked for any. She set that alongside a glass of whiskey and paused over a third empty glass. Sam shook his head, and she put it back.

“Tried to bite the first one’s leg off, and Redwing didn’t want the other one to hold onto that rifle. Both of them woke me up as soon as they heard those men in my house.”

“Such a noble little beastie,” she agreed as she reached out to touch Steve’s tiny, damp nose. The brief contact made his entire body tingle with energy and feel strangely warm.

_There._

There was the source of the same energy he felt the last time he came to the saloon, before everything changed.

“And he’s been loyal to you, hasn’t he.”

“Why, yes, ma’am. Yes, he has.” Steve nosed at Sam’s jaw and whimpered, making Sam smile, and the expression was soft and loving. “He’s very loyal, and I couldn’t leave him all by his lonesome. When I saw him dig his under my fence, that was all she wrote.”

_I’m good at giving a man what he needs, even when he doesn’t know what that is himself. You’re lonely, Mr. Rogers. But, you’re loyal. And loyal men shouldn’t be lonely._

Those words flashed in Steve’s mind, and he wondered why they came back to him now in a rush, haunting him.

“I have the feeling you’re going to give this sweet boy exactly what he needs.”

“I’m getting ahead of myself, talking about my dog… I meant to ask about Steve. Have you seen Steve Rogers? He’s disappeared. I’m just so worried that something’s happened to him.” Sam sounded stricken. “I’m worried to death. He hasn’t been home, and his house was broken into two days later. It couldn’t have been a coincidence.”

“Or, maybe it was.”

Sam’s brows drew together. “Those men might have known where Steve was.”

“I don’t think you should worry. I have a feeling for these things. I think Mr. Rogers will return home to you, sooner than you think, Mr. Wilson. Safe, sound, and unharmed. And I think he knows his home will be waiting for him, just as he left it, under your capable watch.”

She gave Bucky his drink and Clint’s to take back to the table, and Amora went back to serving her guests. “Perhaps you should take Steve back home.”

Sam gave her a surprised smile. “How did you know I named the dog after him?”

“I didn’t.”

*

Sam almost wished he had accepted her offer of a drink. He would have felt less unsettled that night when he walked back into his house. Redwing and Steve followed close on his heels as he shucked his boots and left them in the mud room. Sam lit a lantern and took it up to bed, but then, something stopped him. He eyed Steve’s house through his bedroom window, and Sam suddenly had the urge to go back inside.

The dogs followed him again as Sam walked outside in his stocking feet, lantern lighting his way across the yard and up to the gate. He walked up the drive to Steve’s house and let himself inside, and once again, Sam felt him, somehow. His essence. Some hint of residual warmth that made the space feel welcoming and safe. And for some reason, it just filled Sam with such a strong rush of longing.

“I just want you to come home, Steve. When you do, we can talk. We can sit down and just… have a nice, long talk,” Sam told the empty room. “I promise that I’ll listen. Just please come home safe to me.”

The puppy whined and wagged its tail, nosing at Sam’s ankles. “It’s all right, boy. We won’t be here long. I’m not going to mess with his things, I swear. I just need to see something again.”

Sam went back to Steve’s bedroom and opened the door. There it was, Steve’s scent wafting up from the sheets still, even though it was faint. Sam realized he probably should have brought Steve’s reading glasses back here, because Steve would want them - need them - once he got home. Sam’s eyes scanned the room until they landed on the sketch journal again, propped up on the whatnot shelf. Sam sat in the chair beside the vanity and set down the lantern, and he opened it up to the last few pages. There they were, the pictures he drew of Sam, and once again, Sam marveled at the attention to detail and the repose that he captured him in. It didn’t feel like the gaze of a friend, or an aloof neighbor. Seeing himself through Steve’s lens felt furtive and intimate and raised so many questions. Sam lifted the puppy onto his lap when he fussed to be picked up, and Steve’s paws scrabbled at the edge of the pages. The dog stared up into Sam’s face, and Sam pondered his eyes. Warm, deep, surprising blue. Sam frowned as a current passed between them filled with tingling awareness.

The dog showed up the moment that Sam realized that Steve was missing. One Steve’s side of the fence. Amora knew what Sam named him before he’d even mentioned it…

Sam shook his head and clapped the journal shut. He made a decision that he hoped would make sense to him later and took the journal with him before he left the house.

*

Sam groaned as he pulled up the covers, sinking into the mattress. His body ached from the long rides on horseback and all the work they finished on Steve’s repairs. Sam listened to the low night sounds outside and the sounds of Redwing’s husky breathing down on the floor. Redwing had been content to curl up beside Sam on the bed for a while, but after a few minutes, he sensed Sam’s restlessness and jumped down on the floor, stretching out across the floorboards.

Steve remained on the bed and scooted down under the covers, making Sam chuckle. Sam extinguished the lantern and slowly drifted off. 

*

Steve felt his feet brush against something warm under the sheets and blankets, and he groaned at the welcome sensation of being bundled up and curled around something that shifted beneath his cheek. He was listening to Sam’s breathing, warm air misting from his lips as he continued to sleep. Sam’s fingers were absently curled around Steve’s shoulder, and Steve’s vision was still blurry in the soft, bluish morning light. He reached up and rubbed his eyes, and it took him a moment to realize that he was looking at his _fingers_ again, long and slender, with short, blunt nails and calluses on his palms. He lowered his hand, and it landed on Sam’s chest as it rose and fell. It was warm and bare, with a faint dusting of dark, crisp hair, and Steve felt the even thudding of his heartbeat. The awareness of it made his own heart race.

Steve blushed sharply as he realized that he’d grown accustomed to not needing clothing for the past few days. No nightshirt. No breeches or longjohns. And apparently, Sam didn’t feel the need to wear anything to bed but what the Lord gave him. Steve’s eyes widened as he felt Sam yawn and stretch, making a funny, grouchy noise. His arm convulsed and tightened around Steve, and then he hummed in contentment. “Mmmmmmm.”

“...Sam?”

“Mm-hmm. Mornin’.”

“ _Sam._ ”

“Good morning,” he repeated.

“Good morning.”

Steve waited for the moment to fully sink in, and he sensed the moment Sam got caught up.

Sam’s eyes cracked open, and he tilted his chin toward the source of that familiar voice and found Steve tucked into the crook of his arm. Palming his heartbeat. Hair tousled and lips chapped. Tangled in Sam’s covers but bare as the day he was born.

“I woke up here,” Steve told Sam before he could speak. “I don’t… know how. I mean, I know how, but… this wasn’t how I fell asleep.” His tone was wholly apologetic.

“Did you… come in here after I went to sleep.”

“No. Sam. That wasn’t it. I swear. I wouldn’t do that. I… please don’t be angry. I fell asleep here. I watched you fall asleep. I was right here as soon as you went to bed.”

Sam frowned as a dawning awareness swept over him, and as disturbing as Sam had to find what Steve was telling him, what surprised him was that Sam hadn’t let go of him yet. He just stared at him quizzically and reached out to smooth Steve’s hair back from his brow. If anything, he just shifted Steve more comfortably against him, letting Steve’s foot slide between his ankles to steal a bit of warmth.

“Your feet are cold.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No. Keep ‘em there. Just… stay right here. I’ve been here, waiting for you to come home.” His tone was incredulous, and Steve liked the way he managed to quirk the corner of his mouth upward at the same time that he furrowed his brow. He always enjoyed Sam’s expressions, but this one was probably his favorite.

“I know. I heard you.” Steve failed to suppress his smile. “I heard you, Sam.” Joy filled him at the sound of Sam telling _him_ those words, those perfect, long-awaited words while Sam gave him that lazy, soft smile.

“I’ve got to be dreaming this.”

“Then, we both are.”

“You’re cold, why are you so chilled? You must have fought your way out of the covers last night.”

“I get chilly at night. Normally, I bundle up more than this.”

Sam was rubbing his shoulder and lean upper arm, and Steve’s other one coiled around Sam’s waist instinctively, because now that he was that close to Sam Wilson, he wasn’t letting go. Not when he’d waited this long, silently. Watching from just over the edge of their property line, listening to Sam’s voice and his laugh. Wishing. Thinking of all the things he wished he could say.

“I guess that isn’t anything you needed to know about me, though.”

“Why wouldn’t I need to know that? I’ll warm you up. I want to know if you need me to keep you warm. There’s plenty of room in here for you, Steve.” Sam’s eyes roved over Steve’s face, landing on his mouth. “I like having you close.”

“I gathered that. Kept me all nice and tucked in.”

“And you kept giving me kisses.” Sam shifted Steve and moved him up a little, so that Steve’s head laid up on the pillow, and Steve shivered with want when Sam’s hands cradled his face, his smooth thumbs gently stroking over the crowns of his cheeks.

Steve blushed again and had a hard time meeting Sam’s gaze, until Sam tilted his face, and Steve’s thigh slid between Sam’s, linking them like puzzle pieces. “It was cute,” Sam teased. Steve shook his head, but he chuckled, and Sam laughed outright. “You’re still just the right size for me to hold, Steve. You fit really nice, right here in my arms.”

Steve hesitated for a moment.

“Don’t be shy,” Sam urged. “You weren’t before.”

And Steve realized that Sam was offering him what he wanted, all warm, bare skin and slow, greedy caresses, and he tipped his face up for Sam’s kiss. Sam captured his lips, and his mustache felt ticklish and enticing. Steve breathed in the scent of his skin and drank in the taste of him, felt his hands gently shifting the covers so he could find Steve and explore him, pulling him against him fully. Steve moaned, and the sound licked over Sam’s nerve endings. His arms wrapped around Sam and his fingers combed through Sam’s hair, enjoying its wiry, soft texture. Sam’s kisses were tender, until he caught Steve’s lower lip between his teeth, sucking on it, urging him to open for him, and Sam’s tongue swept inside to taste him, firing up all of Steve’s senses. 

Steve felt his world shift and tilt, and Sam rolled to his back, pulling Steve over him, and it changed everything, these new sensations of Sam moving under him, caressing his back and squeezing his small, firm bottom. Sam’s face. So damned handsome from this vantage point, all high cheekbones, long lashes as his eyes fluttered shut as they kissed, with lips dark and soft as plums. Steve ground his hips against him, a reflex born from his manhood throbbing between them craving more contact, friction and attention. They moved in slow, experimental ripples, and everything felt new, and precious. Sam’s mouth trailed down Steve’s jaw and found the long, taut cords of muscle in his throat, lapping a trail of heat and made Steve gasp and move against him more desperately.

“You feel so good,” Sam breathed. “I waited for you. Wanted you.”

“You have me, Sam.”

“Good. I’m not letting you go.”

Steve groaned and it was a needy sound that Sam craved, and he pushed Steve up and moved himself down to give himself better access to Steve’s chest, to the gracefully narrow ribcage, flat, taut abdomen and blush pink nipples that pebbled and begged for Sam to taste them. His mouth trailed down Steve’s sternum, and his mouth felt so hot and lush when he took one of his little buds between his teeth and suckled it. Sam hummed around Steve’s sensitive flesh, lapping at it, savoring the hint of salt on Steve’s skin. Steve’s hips thrust down against Sam’s hardness, but his dick was trapped against Sam’s belly, swelling and hardening between them as Sam took his sweet time. “God, Sam… please.” Steve’s voice sounded a little desperate, a breathy, rough rasp that lit Sam on fire. Sam teased his nipples leisurely, enjoying the way it made Steve arch and shudder, and he gradually worked his way down his ribs, lapping at and kissing his belly and following the sparse, sandy trail of hair that led to his groin. Sam tugged Steve up, up as his mouth traveled down, until Steve was finally straddling Sam’s _face_ and breathing over his aching, twitching flesh. “Sam…?”

The tip of Sam’s tongue darted out and flicked the rosy head of Steve’s cock. Steve’s hips jerked forward, toward that tempting, slick wetness. A choked, breathy sound escaped him, and Sam did it again, letting it bump against his mouth as he moved over the crown. Steve’s hips thrust him closer, pushing the head just past the seam of his lips, into Sam’s damp, waiting kiss. The covers fell away from Steve’s body, leaving him bare and exposed. Sam’s hands curled around his taut, slender thighs and guided him, urging him to thrust again, and again, guiding Steve into his mouth. Oh, Sam’s _mouth._ Steve felt self-conscious, being so exposed, wondering how Sam saw him, if he thought he was too skinny, or less than manly, but Sam moaned and hummed around Steve’s flesh as he sucked him down, and all rational, doubtful thoughts fled his mind. Sam’s hands ran down Steve’s thighs, and back up over his hard, narrow hips, learning the feel of him intimately. Thoroughly. Steve would let Sam’s hands roam wherever they wanted, as long as he kept doing those things with his tongue. The sight of it overwhelmed Steve, and Sam slowly turned him into a gasping, pleading mess.

Sam sighed and hummed in pleasure at Steve’s flavors and the silky feel of him sliding back and forth over his flattened tongue. Steve’s masculine scent filled Sam’s lungs, and he wanted nothing more than to take Steve apart and learn all the ways Steve could say his name. Steve’s skin was so flushed with healthy color, and his voice was deep and plush, a treat to Sam’s senses. Sam nodded, an incremental motion due to the angle, and he urged Steve to pick up speed and thrust deeper, all the way down to the root. He wanted all of him, could take everything that Steve offered him until he grew lost in it.

Steve felt himself building toward climax, but suddenly, he wasn’t sure he wanted to reach completion in Sam’s mouth. It was intimate, almost too much, when Steve was only accustomed to handling his own needs in the privacy of his lonely bed. His hips halted their desperate thrusts, and Steve reluctantly - and with great difficulty - retreated from Sam’s mouth.

Sam smiled up at him and shook his head, stroking his fingers over Steve’s thighs so lightly that it tickled. “Why’d you make me stop?”

“I just… I didn’t want to…”

“You can. No?”

“Not… quite like that. Not this time. Please?”

“Hm.” Sam tilted his head in a slight shrug, and Steve edged his way down Sam’s body, about to reach for the covers, but Sam stopped him, wrapping his arms around him as he smiled up at him. “Is it okay if I keep looking at you like this? I’m enjoying myself.”

“If you like.”

“I _do_ like.” Sam chuckled, and Steve snickered nervously along with him until Sam kissed him, and they resumed their quiet exploration more slowly. Gently. Outside, the clouds changed colors and a flock of sparrows took flight from the trees, raising a ruckus out in the yard. Sam knew Steve was usually a stickler for beginning his chores early, but he wanted to monopolize him a little longer. Sam trailed kisses over Steve’s skin and drank them from his mouth, and Steve didn’t object when Sam rolled him to his back.

Steve immediately relaxed at the sensation of Sam covering him, feeling less self-conscious, somehow. Less on display. And he luxuriated in the heat from Sam’s body and the slow, smooth slide of his skin against his as Sam began to rut against him, giving Steve friction where he craved it. “S’nice,” Steve breathed. “Feels… nice.” His arms and legs twined around Sam as he kissed scorching trails down Steve’s throat and over his knobby collarbones, gradually returning to his mouth because he couldn’t resist it. Sam’s hand crept between them and gathered Steve’s cock in a loose, cozy grip against his own, and when he thrust into his fist, Steve arched up in pleasure and cried out. It was perfect. Sam Wilson was a man who knew what he was doing and how to make Steve Rogers lose all good sense. Sam worked his hips skillfully, somehow managing to be both smooth and rough, giving Steve just what he needed until he tipped over the edge. His climax rippled through him, and Sam watched his responses and emotions flicker over his face, until he settled back into the pillows, dazed. Rapt. Sweetly limp. Sam left go of him and pumped himself until he, too, spilled his seed, wringing groans from his chest. He collapsed against Steve, and they lay tangled together and panting for several minutes, just feeling each other’s staccato heartbeats.

It was glorious.

*

They snuck looks at each other over the breakfast table as they ate. Sam liked how Steve looked in one of his shirts and a pair of breeches. The clothing swamped his spare frame, but Sam enjoyed the way the neckline sagged off of one of his shoulders. He kissed it as he served Steve some eggs and pancakes, making Steve shiver deliciously. He felt so content and well-used. So cared for.

“I saw your sketches,” Sam admitted. “I don’t know if I was supposed to.”

“I didn’t mean for you to, but… I’m not sorry.”

“Neither am I.” Sam smiled as he took a sip of his coffee. “They told me a little of how you feel. And that was a talk we needed to have.”

“Was that talking, back there?” Steve motioned back toward the bedroom.

Sam sputtered and began to snicker. Steve grinned as he buttered his pancakes. They ate companionably, occasionally leaning in for more kisses. Redwing lingered under the table, waiting for stray crumbs. Steve passed him a few crumbs of scrambled egg.

“I didn’t think you two got along.”

“I just had to learn how to speak his language.”

Sam shook his head, grinning. Redwing poked his face into Steve’s lap and stared up at him with that age-old look that dogs the world over perfected and wielded with no mercy. The look that wouldn’t let even the hardest of hearts deny them anything.

The look that Steve Rogers gave Sam Wilson every day, from that moment forward.


End file.
